No Closer to Heaven
by thebattletardis
Summary: Steve knows Sam is looking for the Winter Soldier alone, despite Natasha's efforts to keep Sam's mission a secret. The only question is how long before Steve realizes he has to find Bucky himself-and how far he'll go to do so. T for language and violence. Post AoU.
1. Calm Before the Storm

It seemed only fitting that it was raining.

His morning run wasn't as fun in the first place, as Sam was away for god-knows-what kind of mission ("It's just surveillance," Natasha had quipped, turning her head before Steve could read her expression), but on top of that, it just had to be pouring buckets.

The weatherman had said the previous night that it wouldn't rain for weeks, so of course Steve was wearing a thin white t-shirt and sweatpants. The shirt was already soaked through, looking more like a tight, sheen undershirt than it should have, and it was only a matter of time before his sweats joined suit. Suddenly aware of the other runners—namely women in their mid-twenties—Steve decided to deviate from his usual route onto a mostly deserted street lined with shops.

He was thinking hard amid the dense torrents of icy water, balancing thoughts of the day's activities with worried wondering about Sam while blinking rainwater out of his eyes. It seemed unlike Sam to go on any kind of mission, surveillance or otherwise, without telling Steve. In fact, it was strange that no one else had mentioned anything about it to Steve, seeing as the former members of SHIELD had banded together in a vaguely united rogue _club_. Was Sam really on a mission, or—? But Natasha had mentioned the mission, so it wasn't a trap—unless Natasha was being fooled as well, which was unlikely. So why wouldn't she have told Steve?

There was only one logical explanation that lurked unarticulated in the back of Steve's mind as he ran, but he refused to clearly form it. Despite his determination, he could feel the thought pushing past the recesses of his mind, daring to be heard, forcing itself in front of every distraction Steve thrust in its way. _No one told you because they didn't want you to help them look for—_

"Okay," Steve said aloud suddenly, stopping and admitting defeat—against the rain, his mind, his sweatpants, everything. "Bus stop."

He glanced around to find one nearby, hoping the closest one might be refuge from the rain. His phone, he knew, was waterproof and very usable, but for some reason he couldn't bring himself to call even Natasha. There seemed to be no bus stops near enough to justify a walk through the freezing rain. He briefly wondered if he could figure out the subway system fast enough to get back to his apartment, but the challenge of New York subway signs was daunting enough that he resolved to walk back. He glanced at his watch—worn out brown leather and a slightly rusted face—and looked up to see which direction the sun was moving.

He was standing in a soaked t-shirt in the middle of the sidewalk, squinting up at the skyline with his hand on his hip, which jutted out slightly. He was breathing heavily in a satisfactory way while scratching his rough cheek. He knew he should shave—Nat reminded him every day—but for once decided to try something new, mostly just to spite her mothering habits. It had been roughly three days unshaven and he already hated it, but he couldn't prove Natasha right so quickly.

Glancing once more at his watch and turning to face the direction he came, Steve took one distracted step forward—and collided with another person.

An unopened umbrella, an opened purse, and several folders full of loose-leaf paper burst onto the sidewalk and into the street. The soaking wet girl who had been holding them collapsed onto the ground to pick her things up with a shocked cry, and Steve followed her example with a torrent of apologies.

"…wasn't looking where I was going, and again I'm _so_ sorry about this…"

"…no, no, no, it's fine, it's fine, accidents happen, it's not your fault…"

Steve was holding several sheets of what looked like a research paper, along with some headphones, a wallet, and a few tampons. Before looking up to see the victim of his thoughtlessness, Steve caught the words "Eliot," "post-Impressionism," and "Debussy" on one of the pieces of paper.

"Isn't Debussy a piano player?" Steve said, glancing up to the owner of the paper.

"What?" the girl asked, thrown off guard by the out-of-place question.

"This—or, I guess _your_ paper—it's talking about Impressionism," Steve explained haltingly, still with a quizzical expression, "but I thought Debussy was a piano player." The girl looked at Steve with a searching expression.

"Sorry, I don't mean to snoop, I just—," Steve started apologetically, beginning to stand.

"No, it's fine," she said as if coming to her senses. She sat up and spoke. "Debussy _was_ a pianist, but the Impressionist movement revolved around music as well as visual art." She paused, looking now at another paper. "Debussy was actually the leader of Impressionism in music, and his strives toward a new style helped bring jazz and even blues to pop culture." All of this she stated with a confused tone, as though still shaken by Steve's question.

The two paused, Steve impressed, the girl embarrassed. Steve glanced at her surprisingly defined features. She had a square face, a distinct jawline, and large, intelligent eyes. She had thick eyebrows, pink lips, and damp dark hair that clung to her forehead. "It's just my term paper," she muttered, looking back down at her work.

After a few seconds, Steve tentatively extended his hand. "I'm Steve, by the way."

She took it uncertainly. "I'm Alex."

There was a pause as Steve tried to think of something to say. Embarrassed slightly, he pointed to the sky and squinted casually. "You know, the weatherman said it would be sunny this morning, but clearly…that's not," he cleared his throat, feeling extremely stupid, "the case." He finished speaking as the feeling of delicate awkwardness shifted to full-scale discomfort and humiliation.

Fortunately, Alex took it in stride. "Yeah, I was lucky to have my umbrella with me, even though I didn't use it." She sadly gazed at her pathetic broken umbrella with its wiry skeleton poking out from under the black fabric. "Oh well."

"Again, I'm so sorry about that—I'll buy you a new one or pay for a cab if you need it." Even as he spoke, Steve had his wallet in his hand and was looking expectantly at Alex. "I could at least buy you a coffee or something?" There was nothing suggestive in Steve's tone; he spoke with genuine concern and regret.

"No, don't worry about it. I needed a new one anyways," she reassured him with a hesitant smile. There was a pause as Alex's brow suddenly furrowed. "Actually, have we met? You look really familiar."

"Oh, um, I'm on the news sometimes," Steve said vaguely. "A correspondent. For CNN."

Alex nodded slowly. "Yeah. That must be it. Huh. It's just—I don't know, it's just weird? You know? You look really familiar. But that must be it."

Steve nodded, anxiety increasing, suddenly feeling like maybe he would be better to call Natasha after all. He glanced again at his watch and raised his head to give another apology and a final farewell. "I have to go." He realized she was still sitting on the sidewalk, so Steve reached out to help her up. As he helped her stand, he continued, "I was actually on my morning run to avoid a friend of mine."

 _Why am I still talking?_ Steve wondered silently.

"Oh, wow," Alex said, now standing awkwardly in front of him. She was quite short. "That sounds heavy."

"Yeah," Steve said uncertainly. What the hell did that mean? He was mostly caught up on slang just from listening to people talk, but this term must have been outdated or something. "It is."

Alex turned away, looking back and waving. "See you around, Steve."

"Yeah, see you around."

As he turned and started to walk back in the direction he came, Steve was glad Natasha hadn't been there. First of all, she would have pressured him into getting her number, or some other awful thing, and secondly, he probably would have collapsed into himself like a dying star.

Still, despite his anxiety and embarrassment, he was glad for the distraction. He had enough happening in his immediate sphere of reality that he was able to push his suspicions aside. It was 8 am and he was thoroughly exhausted, so he decided to just sit on a nearby bench and call Natasha. Unopened texts aside, he had enough to be dealing with for one morning.

 **A/N: Cool! The first part of what should hopefully be a really fun project. By fun, I of course mean painful. This is gonna be a really angsty story, guys. Like really, ridiculously, crazy amounts of angst. Maybe a little too angsty. Anyways. I hope you guys liked this beginning, because getting into Steve's head was really interesting and fun to write. I consider this a** _ **huge**_ **step up from my older stories. Thanks as always for reading, and don't forget to review!**


	2. Coffee and Contemplation

For the next two weeks, Steve was still nervous about Sam. He was almost certain that Sam was looking for the Winter Soldier, a thought that deeply worried Steve for two reasons: He knew Sam couldn't handle the Winter Soldier on his own, as Steve hadn't even been able to handle the Winter Soldier on his own, and, perhaps most importantly, Steve wanted to find Bucky before anyone else.

It was with these thoughts in mind that he met Natasha and, surprisingly, Clint, for coffee that morning.

"You know they have a Nutellacappuccinohere?" Natasha said, teasing Steve for his sweet tooth. The captain had found upon waking in 2012 that there was now an infinity of ways to satisfy a craving for candy. Having been born during the First World War, grown up through the Depression, and first experienced adulthood in World War Two, Steve had never known what it was like to be able to eat as much sugar as you could stomach.

Steve raised his eyebrows. "Did you order one for me?"

Natasha smiled. "Of course."

Clint made a grunting sound. "Looks like you've replaced me already, Nat."

"Oh, c'mon, Barton, you know I could never do that," Natasha quipped playfully.

"I've been retired for what? 2 weeks?"

"Closer to 6 months, Clint," Steve said with a good-natured laugh.

The coffee shop was a small one, run by a local Italian family, and it was situated on the corner of an alley frequented by artists selling their work. Next door to the coffee shop was a flower shop of a similar kind, and across the street was an old couple who gave piano lessons. It was a quaint neighborhood, one that Steve often liked to wander through when he felt like sketching.

"Yeah, well, 4 months and you've already replaced me with Wonder Woman over here," he grumbled.

Steve smiled to himself as he sat down. "How are the kids?"

"Well, little Nathan's already taking after his namesake," Clint sighed, looking more content in his tiredness than Steve had ever seen him. The trials of having a newborn were clearly taking its toll on Clint, but based on the way his face lit up when Steve had asked, Clint didn't mind it much. "He likes to roll under the coffee table whenever we're not looking."

"In a few years, he'll have basic concealment and evasion techniques down," Natasha said with a proud smile, taking a sip of tea.

The three friends talked about kids and the deck Clint was building for what felt like hours. Steve was glad to be with his friends, but admittedly he wasn't really interested in talking about anything suburban. He wondered how Nat managed to casually mention Budapest before switching easily into the topic of potty training—how she separated work from life. _Not exactly my strong suit,_ Steve thought, laughing just a split second too late at a joke Clint made. He knew Natasha had noticed, but thankfully she didn't mention it.

Clint's story was interrupted by the barista calling out Natasha's name. "I got it," Steve said, standing and insisting that Nat stay seated.

 _Sam's fine,_ Steve told himself as he smiled at the barista. She smiled back and said something probably along the lines of, "Have a nice day!" He remembered telling Sam a story about Bucky from his childhood—in retrospect, this was a mistake. Steve knew now that this story was likely what had caused Sam to take on this mission. _Not that any mission is definite at this point,_ he reminded himself.

Steve's thoughts were too clouded for his own good: he picked up the coffee and took a long swig before realizing that the barista had said, "Be careful, it's very hot!"

He jumped, his reflexes slowed by his foggy mind, and the cup fell, hitting the table Steve was walking by and splitting open on someone's laptop.

"Oh, shit, I'm so sorry," Steve said, grabbing napkins from the dispenser on the table as the owner of the laptop jumped out of her chair.

"Oh, god, I can't believe—wait, _you again?_ " Alex, the girl from yesterday, said in tears as she rounded on Steve.

Steve was absolutely horrified. "Oh my god, I'm so sorry," he said, wishing he could disappear. An image of his shield flashed briefly in his head.

"No—not you, Ana, I gotta go," she hissed into her phone, voice cracking. She started wiping down her laptop, which had been open when Steve poured boiling coffee on it.

"I can buy you a new laptop, Alex," Steve said (it was weird to say her name since he didn't really know her). "Here, just write down your address, I'll bring it to you tomorrow." He was speaking as quickly and apologetically as he could, which made him sound rather like he had drunk too much caffeine.

Alex looked down at him with alarm and concern. "Dude, are you okay?" she said with a hint of real urgency in her tone.

"What?" Steve said, utterly confused by the question. "I'm fine, I was just trying to get your address so I could drop off the new laptop?"

"You wrecked my thousand dollar laptop so you could get my _number?_ " Alex cried angrily, throwing a soaked napkin at him.

"No!" Steve exclaimed. He felt his face reddening. He stood up straight and spoke calmly. "I wanna pay for the damage, so just…" He gestured to the dry napkin in his hand while searching the table for a pen. "I'm really sorry about all this," he said again, wincing.

Alex glared at him searchingly, then sighed and grabbed the napkin from him. "Yeah, you seem sincere. And you kinda owe me," she added accusatorily as she scribbled, bent over the table. She thrust the napkin at Steve, brushed her hair aside, and said with as much dignity as she could muster, "Thank you."

"Of course," Steve said, relieved to be done with the whole scenario. "I just wanna make it up to you."

At that moment, Natasha stood up, searching expressively for Steve. When she saw him standing at Alex's table, she pointed her fingers at him, shrugged as though asking what was taking him so long, and then tapped her wrist.

Alex had her head cocked to one side when Steve turned back to her. "She seems fun."

"Yeah, you should see her on game night," Steve replied, earning a small smile from her. "Anyways, I really should be getting back; it's an old friend who I haven't seen in a while. Again, I'm sorry about the damage. I'll have the new one back to you as soon as I can."

"Thanks," Alex said, looking down at a fresh coffee stain on her pants. "See you later, Steve."

Upon his return to his own table, Clint said, "Aw, Grandpa broke the computer."

Steve laughed. "You're closer to being a grandpa than I am. You've got, what, 12 kids now?"

"Hilarious," Clint said, slightly disgruntled at Natasha and Steve's laughter.

Hours later, Steve arrived at his building in high spirits, having forgotten his worries for a few hours. As soon as he arrived at his apartment door, though, the dread and fear came flooding back. _Well, it was nice while it lasted,_ Steve thought unhappily as he opened the door.

He sighed and glanced at the living room—which was not empty. "Hey," Tony Stark called distractedly, oblivious to Steve's alarm.

"Stark," Steve said, half annoyed, half relieved. "What the hell are you doing here?" Steve paused for half a second before correcting himself: "How the hell did you get in here?"

Stark glanced up. He was sitting on Steve's stylish leather couch, leaning forward to work on a blueprint that was being projected from his laptop. Steve's newspaper was stained with coffee rings from the white cup that Tony was obviously using. "It's not that hard, Rogers. I'd have thought you'd know that after Fury managed to break in with at least 6 broken bones," Tony scoffed. He seemed unperturbed by the annoyed look on Steve's face. "As for the first question, I came here for your own needs."

Steve didn't try to hide his eye roll as he said, "My own needs? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Yes, your own needs, old timer," Tony continued calmly, standing. The captain started to object, eyebrows furrowing stormily, but Tony spoke over him. "You _need_ to know what Falcon's doing. I happen to have that information, and frankly I don't think it's fair that the others are keeping you in the dark."

"Why should I believe you?" Steve challenged.

"Oh, c'mon, Cap, that's an old fight," Tony said, raising his eyebrows expressively. "We're on the same team now." He paused, glancing around at his projection. "At least officially, anyways."

Steve considered this. This was true. Stark was no longer any kind of threat to Steve—he never really had been, to be honest, although Steve couldn't help but remember the biting words he had said upon meeting the genius. "How would you have," Steve trailed off, at a loss for words, "How would you have come across any information about Sam?"

Tony smiled and irritation flickered across Steve's face. He had unwittingly admitted that he trusted and believed Stark. "Well, first of all, it's no big secret that SHIELD—or what's left of it, anyway—wants the Winter Soldier found," Tony explained almost mechanically. "And they couldn't send you—you're _People Magazine_ 's favorite Avenger. To make matters worse, you've got an…emotional interest in the subject, which is like a time-bomb tick-tick-ticking away until you take matters into your own hands," Tony continued, ignoring the captain's death stares. "At least in Fury's eyes."

"What's that got to do with your involvement, Stark?" Steve said tersely, his expression showing that Stark had limited time before his story was cut short.

"The point," Tony cut in, "is that Wilson knows enough about your… _friend_ , Bucky—" Steve's expression softened for a brief second—"to be of use in his capture, and he's the only person willing to do the job alone. Now, as someone with no interest or involvement with any of this, I can't help but notice that this is a fucking _terrible_ idea."

The room was silent as Steve waited for Stark to finish his explanation. "So why are you telling me all this?"

Tony sighed, looked up at the ceiling, and shook his head. "I have to spell it all out for you, huh?" He looked back at Steve, suddenly more serious than the captain had ever seen him. "If you want Wilson and Barnes out of this safely, you have to do something about it. You can't call Romanov and hope she can get you out of this, you can't use your connections abroad—you have to do something about this personally, Cap."

Steve stared, allowing Stark's words to echo briefly around the room. "Why do you c—"

"I _don't_ care," Tony practically spat. "You have no idea how _little_ any of this matters to me." Steve's hard expression didn't change, but he also didn't move when Tony stepped closer to him. "But it matters to _you_. And like it or not, we're on the same team. It wouldn't be fair to you if I…withheld this." Tony broke his staring contest with the soldier, simultaneously breaking the tension. "And you don't even have to thank me for this, either. We can just call it even for what happened in Sokovia."

"I didn't—"

"It doesn't matter what you did or didn't do," Tony said, steely, "we're even."

Steve stared for a moment as Tony started to leave. "Actually," he blurted, "I could use a" —he braced himself before saying it— "favor."

Tony turned around, shocked and amused. "Anything you need, Cadet Kelly."

"I accidentally broke someone's computer," Steve said, feeling stupid. Stark was going to assume he meant, "I'm old and I don't understand technology," which was partly true, but Steve was no idiot. "I said I would buy them a new one, but…computers are—"

"Expensive?" Tony guessed, not even trying to hide his amusement.

"Yes," Steve admitted. Judging by Stark's expression, Steve had correctly guessed his understanding of the situation.

"Yeah, I can get you a computer," Tony said casually. "Do you know what model?" He shook his head. "I mean do you know what kind of computer?"

"Yes, I know what _model_ ," Steve said stubbornly, asserting his competence. "A MacBook Pro, I think."

Tony looked bored. "I could make my own laptop, you know."

"Yeah, I know that, Stark, but I'm asking for a MacBook Pro," Steve said tersely. This entire scenario was embarrassing, but he wanted to make it up to Alex.

Tony shrugged. "Okay. MacBook Pro it is, then. I'll have it here by tomorrow, unless you'd rather I sent it courtesy of Stark Industries to the kid whose laptop you broke. Be a real thrill, don't you think?"

"Here is fine," Steve insisted.

Tony really thought this was great, and _god_ did he have some good nicknames picked out now, but he had reached an unspoken understanding with the Captain. The name-calling could be saved until a drunker time, an afterparty sort of thing. "Alrighty. See you tomorrow, Cap." He walked out the door, waving lazily.

Steve relaxed his shoulders for the first time since he had opened his apartment door, but was sent back into full alert when Stark's head came peeking into his apartment.

"If you don't mind me asking, how did you break this kid's computer? Was there a rage fit involved, or did you accidentally double click too hard? If it was the anger thing, I completely understand, Apple's frustrating as hell—"

"Get out, Tony!" Steve said in shocked response.

Tony raised his hands tactfully and left.

After a brief moment of staring at the door to be sure Stark was gone, Steve collapsed onto the sofa, rubbing his eyelids with an exaggerated sigh. He pulled the napkin out of his pocket and sighed again. Tomorrow would be a long day.

 **AN: Hey guys! This chapter was really, really, really long, and for that I'm so deeply sorry. (Not really though. It was fun to write tbh.) I actually started it out with a flashback about Sam, which I did hint at here, but it got a little long winded so I thought I should trash it. Little did I know that this chapter would end up being 2700 WORDS LONG ANYWAYS UGH.**

 **Anyways, any reviews would be appreciated! I'm trying to figure out how to make this story better for the reader, so any criticism or advice would be much appreciated!**


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